Father Burke’s face was nearly as white as his vestments. When it was time for the choir to sing the
Kyrie,
he went over and whispered to them, patting a couple of heads, before lifting his arms to direct the music. The space around us filled with the exquisite harmonies of Byrd’s
Mass for Four Voices
as the choir asked in song for the Lord’s mercy. It seemed to take all of Burke’s strength to keep his feelings of grief, and no doubt anger, from showing on his face. Family members wept quietly. The sense of overwhelming grief for the nine-year-old child intensified as the funeral Mass went on. One person in the church, however, was more fascinated than mournful, and that was my daughter. Although she understood that it was a solemn occasion, and that a child not much older than she had died, Normie gazed raptly around the church, at the jewel tones of the stained glass, the dignified statues, the white-robed priests and choristers. Just after the consecration, her eyes seemed to catch those of Father Burke. He made a slight gesture with his hands, almost as if he were inviting her to see, or in some other way experience, what was now present on the altar.
The choir children bore up fairly well until it was time to rise for the last sung part of the Mass, the
Agnus Dei.
I remembered Burke’s beatific smile as Janeece and the other choir members sang that day at practice. Now the children stood with their books and Burke waited for their attention. One little red-haired girl in the front row began to sniffle and started to lift her arm as if to wipe her nose on her robe, then she thought better of it and let the arm drop. Another little girl started to cry then, and one after the other, the two girls darted forward and buried their faces in the priest’s vestments. He put his arms around them and bent his head towards them. Other choir members looked to be on the verge of losing control. Just then there was a flash and everyone turned, startled, to see a skinny young man in a safari jacket standing beside the altar, a professional-looking camera aimed at the choir. I looked at Father O’Flaherty and saw him shake his head at the photographer, who raised his hand in acquiescence, sat in a pew, and took out a notebook.
Burke, who had ignored the distraction, straightened up and stood for a few moments. Then he motioned with his hands for the children to sit down. He shook his head gently. Taking a deep breath, he turned to face the congregation and began to sing the
Agnus Dei,
not from the Byrd but from the
Mass of the Angels,
the exquisite Gregorian chant that Alvin had requested the day I had listened to the practice. The priest sang with restraint but the timbre of his voice filled the church with the ancient melody. Instead of the usual text he substituted the words from the Mass for the Dead:
“Dona eis requiem. “
He gazed into space for a few minutes when he had finished, then returned to Father O’Flaherty’s side to assist with the rest of the Mass.
At the end of the service, O’Flaherty incensed the casket and said a prayer for Janeece. Burke followed with a prayer of his own. It was clear that he, like Alvin, did not pray from the same hymn book as the rest of us. Whether he found the old words more worthy of her, or he had reverted to the ancient form the way our regional accents burst forth from us in times of stress, Father Burke prayed quietly in Latin, and then in the vernacular:
“Te decet hymnus Deus in Sion, et tibi reddetur votum in Jerusalem: exaudi orationem meam, ad te omnis caro veniet...
O God, Whose property is ever to have mercy and to spare, we humbly entreat Thee on behalf of the soul of Thy servant Janeece, whom Thou hast bidden this day to pass out of this world, that Thou wouldst not deliver her into the hands of the enemy, nor forget her forever, but command her to be taken up by the holy Angels, and to be borne to our home in Paradise.” He stood looking down at the picture of a smiling Janeece, her beautiful black hair fanned out beside her face, her huge, dark eyes sparkling. He extended his right hand and made a small sign of the cross over the picture, bowed deeply towards it, turned on his heel, walked back to the altar and out of the church.
As the pallbearers bore the casket slowly towards the doors of St. Bernadette’s, the magnificent voice of the gospel singer filled the church. The haunting melody rose until she reached an effortless B flat and then descended again. I realized I had heard this Amen sung by the great soprano Jessye Norman, and it was a reverent and fitting tribute. An Amen to the sacredness of the child’s life and spirit.
The Wednesday May 9th edition of the
Daily News
carried a small story on the funeral, accompanied by a photo of Father Burke bending to comfort the choir children. The reporter was someone new, a journalism student perhaps. The story went into detail about the way Janeece died, and described the obvious grief of the choir director, who walked out before the Mass was ended. Sympathetic as it was to the child and to the priest, the story would soon come back to haunt us all.
IV
The funeral was on a Tuesday, and on the Friday, Rowan Stratton and I enjoyed a leisurely lunch in a quiet restaurant on Spring Garden Road, followed by a stroll in the Public Gardens. Magnolias were in bloom around us, and the park benches were full of people soaking up the spring sun.
“For a while there, it looked as though you were going to star in Stratton Sommers’s first murder trial,” Rowan said as we crossed the stone footbridge near the entrance to the gardens. “But I’m sure you were as relieved as I that the scurrilous accusations against Brennan Burke went nowhere. Good man, Burke. I’ve known him a long time. I hear he may be asked to direct a segment of an upcoming performance by the Halifax Symphony. I certainly hope so. A talented musician.”
“I hope to hear his choir too, on a happier occasion. He’s quite a character,” I remarked. “Takes a while to get to know him.”
“I suppose so, yes. Of course, under a bit of a strain when you met him. Shame, really. And no other suspects in the girl’s murder. From what I understand — unfortunate background, nasty connections — the killer could have been any number of people. If only the police had done their job. I should give Brennan a ring. He took it very hard, the little choirgirl’s death. Difficult for him. He’s not the sort of fellow to put his feelings on display.”
“No, he’s not.” We dodged pigeons, and toddlers feeding them, as we made our way around the duck pond. I smiled when I remembered Normie at eighteen months; she chased a goose across the gardens, right into a wedding party posing for a photograph. That episode, suitably embellished, became her favourite bedtime story.
“Brennan is flying to New York the day after tomorrow to see his family,” Rowan said. “The change of scene will do him good.” We ambled down Spring Garden Road in the sunshine, greeting people we knew on the way.
The news was waiting for us when we got to the office. At eleven o’clock that morning, the body of Janeece’s stepmother had been found wrapped in a black plastic raincoat, in a ravine under the MacKay Bridge, Halifax side. I knew instantly that what we had gone through over the Leeza Rae murder would pale when compared with what lay in the future for Brennan Burke. Same location, same type of raincoat, and a clear connection between Burke and the murdered woman’s stepchild, who had died as a result of the woman’s negligence. I had to face the obvious: Burke could well be a killer.
I was about to call the rectory when Darlene announced that Father Burke was on the line.
“I just heard,” Burke stated without preamble. “What the hell is going on?”
“I just got the news too, Brennan. I don’t know whether this killing has the same hallmarks as the other, but —”
“You can be sure it does. Now what?”
“Brennan, all I can say is sit tight. Don’t talk to anyone, especially the police. Obviously. And I wouldn’t say anything to Mike O’Flaherty either. You know how he is with Sergeant Walker. I’ll try to find out more. As soon as I do, I’ll let you know.”
I entered Rowan’s office and looked into his eyes. “Rowan. Did he kill those two women?”
“Steady on, Montague. We mustn’t succumb to hysteria.”
I persisted. “How well do you really know him? We have to find out what we’re dealing with here.”
“I have known Brennan since he was what? Sixteen years old. The family he stayed with during those weeks in the summers, the Worthingtons, are lovely people —”
“But Rowan, a boy on summer holiday. How deeply would you have seen into his character?”
“I knew him when he came up here in the late 1960s, as a priest. I know him now. You know him yourself. You and Brennan seem to have become friends of a sort.”
“I’m always ready to second-guess my own judgment, Rowan. What do you know of Burke’s life in New York? Character forms early. I’m sure we’re all agreed on that.”
I was of the view, and in the end Rowan could not disagree, that if there was anything in our client’s character, or his past, that might rear up and bite us in the event of a murder trial, it would be found in New York. Burke was about to leave for his visit home, so I cobbled together a story about my brother buying airline tickets and having to cancel at the last minute. I now had the tickets. Rowan would be on hand to deal with whatever might happen in Halifax.
I was surprised that Brennan managed to leave the city before any charges were laid against him. I left on a later flight; still no charges.
I brought with me a satchel full of newspapers and I spent the early part of the flight reading about the murder of Tanya Cudmore. She was thirty-four years old. Her first husband had died in a jail cell under mysterious circumstances years ago. Her second had done time for assault; the implication was that Tanya had been the one assaulted. She moved in with the father of Janeece Tuck two years ago. Janeece had a brother, aged seven. Tanya had three children, who lived with her on and off. She had never held a job, and was living on Social Assistance. Photos showed a woman who looked considerably older than thirty-four, her skin pale and her hair lifeless. I remembered the woman being supported into the church at Janeece’s funeral.
I put the papers away but could think of nothing else. Brutal images filled my mind. I imagined the violence done to Tanya Cudmore by an unknown killer. And I remembered the violence done to Jason, the church vandal, by Brennan Burke.
Your mother stands a-crying as to the earth your body is slowly cast.
Your father stands in silence caressing every young dream of the past.
And your troubled young life had made you turn
to the needle of death.
— Bert Jansch, “Needle of Death”
I
Father Burke’s old girlfriend was Sandra Worthington. Rowan had given me her address, and here I was on her doorstep in Manhattan’s tony Upper East Side. The red brick townhouse was five storeys high with an elegant fan-lighted doorway and eight-over-eight windows.
“We’ve known Sandra since she was a child,” Rowan had said. “Her parents were friends of ours, neighbours at Chester in the summers. We met Brennan there when he was in his teens, visiting Sandy at the cottage. A splendid young couple, really. But, well, he chose another life. There you have it.”
Rowan expressed no interest in probing Burke’s years as a seminarian and priest in New York. With time running against us, I had to agree: it was the earlier years that were of interest. I would start with the girlfriend.
The woman who met me at the door was nearly as tall as I was, five foot ten or so. Her light brown hair was short and layered; her eyes were almost an aquamarine blue. She appeared to be in her early
forties but I knew she was older. There were the inevitable lines around her eyes; I took them to be laugh lines and I was encouraged to think that this was a woman with a sense of humour.
“Rowan tells me you want to hear about Brennan Burke,” she said and looked at me for a long moment. “Come in.”
I followed Sandra to her second-floor apartment. The living room had twelve-foot ceilings and an intricately carved marble fireplace. I sank into a buttery leather sofa and I had to resist the temptation to stretch out with my hands behind my head and my feet up. Facing me on the wall were three small Impressionist paintings, a framed
Mad
magazine cover, and a page from a musical score. I was curious about the music but I didn’t ask.
“Would you like anything? Coffee? A drink?” Her voice was low and cultured.
“No, Sandra, thanks.”
“This takes me back a long way. What do you think I can tell you about Brennan? I haven’t laid eyes on him in nearly three decades.”
“He’s a client.” I had not been able to decide how to handle this interview, and Sandra’s inevitable questions. I would play it by ear. “You may be able to help by telling me what he was like when he was younger.”
“A character witness.” She looked at me shrewdly. “He must be in a hell of a lot of trouble. Hasn’t he been a man of God for a quarter of a century now? Surely you have thousands of character witnesses, or references, or whatever it is you need. So why me?” She leaned forward. “Or are you looking for the bad news, in the hopes that it won’t be as bad as you fear, so you can find bottom and look up from there? Tell me. What’s he done?”
“Sandra, I can’t tell you what he’s suspected of. It’s not public knowledge, I’m his lawyer, and he has the right to confidentiality. But please understand. The suspicions are absurd. If you can see your way to helping me under these conditions, I’d be most grateful.”
“Rowan Stratton is a dear, charming man. An old friend. I couldn’t say no. It’s something sexual, isn’t it?”
“Why would you say that?”
She gave me the kind of look Burke would have given me if I was being an imbecile. “If you think,” she said, “that Brennan Burke has
been celibate for thirty years, or thirty weeks, I’m not going to give credence to anything else you say.” She was shaking her head with a slight smile on her face.
“Tell me about him.”
But Sandra got up from her chair and walked over to a demi-lune table covered with photographs in silver frames. “These are my kids.” I joined her at the table. “This is Karen. She’s in second year law. When your child signs on as a lawyer you think about the clientele she’ll have to deal with, but you never really know the worst of it, do you?” I was about to make a polite protest, but I saw a glint of humour in her aqua blue eyes. “My son David is in college out on the west coast. Laura’s still in high school.” There were other photos. One must have been of her husband. A few years her senior. The distinguished older couple were obviously her parents. Lying flat without a frame was a picture of a bouffanted, kohl-eyed Sandra in the early 1960s; it had the appearance of an album cover.